


A Great Man

by kristenthelia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 20:36:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kristenthelia/pseuds/kristenthelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John visits Sherlock in the hospital after the explosion in The Great Game and discovers his friend isn't as cold as he'd like to seem. Possibly John/Sherlock if you want. Moved from FanFiction.Net</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Great Man

John grabbed his cane, using it for an actual leg injury this time, and shuffled out of the hospital doors. He went to hail a taxi, briefly wondering where Sherlock was. They hadn't spoken since the explosion by the pool a week ago.

Gathering the few things he had with him in the hospital, John reached over to grab his cane before shuffling out of his hospital room. Thankfully, he hadn't had a long stay and was merely treated for a few burns and a concussion. But it was all worth if it Moriarty was stopped.

As John shuffled out of the room, his thoughts turn to the day by the pool. He had really thought they were safe, only for Moriarty to return not seconds later. He felt his ire rise. At that moment he knew things were not going to end well. Both he and Sherlock knew what he was going to have to do. It was the only way.

The explosion itself was a blur. He remembered the bright lights and the flying debris and the water. Soon after there were sirens and shouting before he felt himself being picked up and, apparently, being loaded into an ambulance. It was strange for him to experience being take care of rather than being the one doing the taking care.

His train of thought came to a stop when he realized he had no clue where Sherlock was or even if he was still alive. He had been closer to the blast than John had and he had no memory of Sherlock after firing the gun.

Stepping up his pace he hobbled to the nurse's station. "Excuse me, has a Sherlock Holmes been admitted?" He asked. "He was probably admitted about a week or so ago…"

The nurse stared at him a moment before turning to her computer, typing away at some form. He waited a minute or so before the burse turned back to him. "It would appear that he has. He's in the North Tower in ICU."

John's blood went cold. In intensive care? What had happened to him? He briefly thanked the nurse before making his way to the elevators. He deftly pressed the up button, waiting for the ding to go off, before he started trudging along again.

He kept his rampant thoughts at bay until he reached the doors to intensive care. John had seen many hospitals of all shapes in sizes, but rarely on the side of a patient, and even less so as a visitor. Somehow it was scarier in this role than any other.

He deftly pressed the button, allowing the ICU's doors to swing open with a buzz. He moved into the sterilized area warily, stopping only to inquire which room his friend was in. The nurse pointed him to a room two doors down. "But," she stopped him. "He's in pretty bad condition. Just so you're forewarned." John nodded briefly before moving again.

He grasped the handle, peering through the small window at his friend. He did indeed look awful. His hands were both bandaged and sitting on top of the blue hospital blanket. His face was scratched, several deep cuts crossing through his cheeks. He was also pretty sure his chest had been bandaged, but he couldn't be sure. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep.

Sighing deeply, as if extra oxygen would brace him for the impact of seeing his friend this way, he opened the door and entered the small hospital room. He spied several flower arrangements beside his bed. He glanced at a card to see one from Mrs. Hudson and smiled. He could just imagine her fussing and worrying like a mother hen.

"I was wondering when you would show up," a voice croaked, as if his voice had been burnt. In fact, his throat probably had. John turned to see Sherlock smiling slightly. John turned and grabbed the other chair in the room, pulling it close to the bed.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, simply not really know what else to say.

"Like I've been in explosion next to a pool," he replied sardonically. Well, at least he had his sense of humor… "But if you want a more precise answer, I have a sore torso, cuts from the tile on my back, and a rather bruised forehead."

John nodded, and silence fell on the room once more. They merely sit together staring at different objects in space before John spoke again. "What happened, Sherlock?"

The other man turned to stare at him. "What do you mean?"

"You've obviously sustained more injuries than me. Why?" Sherlock merely blinked at him a moment before turning his away forwards to stare at the wall.

"I've not had many friends in my life, John. You are one of the first people to see me more as a person than as a sideshow," he sighed, uncomfortable with the amount of emotions he was displaying. "Let's just say I wasn't eager to have my only friend in the world blown up."

John stared a moment before smiling slightly. "Are you saying you… protected me from the blast?"

He stiffened. "Perhaps," he replied.

"I know that you're a great man Sherlock. There's not another person in the world like you," John said standing, his smile beginning to take over his face. "But I think you are in danger being a good one as well."

Sherlock turned his rapt attention from wall to look at John in surprise. "Me, a good man?" He barked a laugh. "I think they've been giving you too many meds, John."

"Maybe," John conceded. "But you risked your life to save mine. In fact, you risked your life to save many people. You constantly take on cases, and while they just may be an amusement to you, you inadvertently help people who have been wronged."

"That doesn't make me a good man," Sherlock interrupted. "In fact, it makes me a rather selfish man."

"Yeah, that's how it looks. On the surface," he responded, a smile beginning to creep onto his face. "But I think you do it because you, deep in your heart, like helping people."

"Do I?" Sherlock raised his eyebrow at him. "What makes you say that?"

"You're not Moriarty," John responded simply. "You could use your skills to make people disappear, to kill people. Lord knows no one could ever catch you. Instead, you use them to solve crimes and give voices to people that can't. You chose to be good, Sherlock Holmes. And that makes you a hero."

John could see Sherlock becoming uncomfortable, shifting in his seat. "Don't make people into heroes John. I told you."

"Yes. Yes, you did. Doesn't mean you're not one though."

Sherlock turned his gaze away from John again, glaring at the wall. "I am not a hero, John. I am a selfish man. I am a cruel man. Men like me are not heroes."

"So you have faults," John shrugged. "Everyone does."

Sherlock sighed heavily before grabbing his morphine button and pressing it several times. "I'm rather tired John. I think I'm going to nap."

"Of course," John said, limping towards the door. "I'll check on you tomorrow, yeah?"

Sherlock didn't respond. John shrugged and went to open the door. From behind floated heard a soft, "Thank you." John merely smiled as the door shut behind him.


End file.
